


Three Ways: Tuxedo, Stakeout, Wordless

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a "30 Ways in 30 Days" collaboration. (That's thirty ways John and Sherlock get it on, in case that wasn't clear.) See notes at end for a link to the master post at LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Ways: Tuxedo, Stakeout, Wordless

**Tuxedo**  
  
Sherlock is an egoist, not a narcissist. He thinks he is more important than everyone else, but he doesn’t think he is more beautiful.  
  
Except when he is wearing a tuxedo.  
  
When he is wearing a tuxedo, he is stunning, fucking _breathtaking_ , and he knows it. Every reflective surface catches his eye, and he is completely unable to look away unless and until either he or the reflective surface is forced to move. Every mirror, every window, every bloody piece of silverware becomes an irresistible object.  
  
It’s why all his protestations about fancy dress are so laughable. He complains about having to go to Mycroft’s event to deduce what he can about the illicit activities of the Belgian prime minister’s secretary (Anthea can only be so many places at once) but John nearly has to drag him by the arm from the full-length mirror in the bedroom or they’ll be late.  
  
Back at home, at the end of the night, they’re barely inside the door before John has him pushed against the wall. Sherlock looks momentarily startled.  
  
“You’re not the only one who thinks you look hot in a tux,” John mutters. In an instant, his hands are on Sherlock’s head, bringing him down for a long-awaited kiss, full of heat and impatience.  
  
“John...” Sherlock breathes into his mouth. He pulls away for a moment, his eyes heavy-lidded, his pupils wide and dark, but still shining with need. There’s a question there, a request, and John can’t help but grin. He knows what Sherlock wants.  
  
“Yeah, of course.” John wrenches one last groaning kiss from Sherlock’s delectable mouth, then drops to his knees, angling their bodies so Sherlock has a clear view in the dark reflection of the window.  
  
Sherlock’s not sure he even blinks until it’s over.  
  
*  *  *  *  *  
  
 **Stakeout**  
  
“What are we doing here again?”  
“Catching a criminal, John.”  
“Doesn’t seem like it.”  
 _One minute passes._  
“I’m bored.”  
“You’re never bored.”  
“I am now.”  
“John, this is important.”  
“Nothing is happening, nothing is going to happen. It’s bucketing rain. Even criminals don’t enjoy doing crime in the rain.”  
“This one might.”  
“Then he’s the most annoying criminal alive. Where did you even get this van?”  
“Lestrade lent it to me."  
 _One second passes._  
"Well, I say ‘lent’.”  
 _Two minutes pass._  
“John, what are you doing?”  
“Nothing.”  
“That is patently untrue. Your hand is on my leg.”  
“Is it?”  
“Now it’s... John, really, we have to...”  
“No we don’t, I’m telling you. Nothing is going to happen tonight... Well, not out there, anyway.”  
“John, I need to focus.”  
“Don’t mind me.”  
“I can’t focus with your hand in my trousers.”  
“Sure you can. You’re brilliant. Your brain is vastly superior to the rest of ours. You told me so.”  
“Yes, but some reactions can’t be contro... JOHN.”  
“What?”  
“Get back in your seat, please.”  
“No. You can see over me.”  
“That’s not the point.”  
“Just be quiet, for once.”  
“John, I.... oh...”  
 _Two minutes pass, at the end of which they both make rather unintelligible sounds. Then:_  
“I can’t believe you just did that.”  
“I can’t believe you only lasted two minutes. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”  
“Flattered. Trust me, you should be flattered. But you realize, of course, that because you couldn’t control yourself, we have to come back tomorrow.”  
“Why?”  
“He escaped.”  
“What? You saw him?”  
“Yes, but I was otherwise engaged.”  
“I’m not sure I believe you.”  
“That makes no difference. Same time, tomorrow night, right back here.”  
“I might have to distract you again.”  
 _One second passes as the curtain behind the seats slides open._  
“Then _I_ might have to arrest you for public lewdness.”  
 _One minute passes while John stares at Lestrade, then Sherlock, then Lestrade. Then Sherlock. Then straight out the window._  
 _Seven hundred and ninety-three minutes pass before John begins speaking to Sherlock again._  
  
*  *  *  *  *  
  
 **Wordless**  
  
Sherlock follows John into the flat, and thinks that if he hears the other man say one word, one well-intentioned but devastatingly unwelcome word trying to _comfort_ him, he will climb the walls, crawl out of his skin, explode with frustration.  
  
The fact is that he missed something, some small detail somewhere failed to process, and because of that, a woman is dead and a man has escaped and he can't hear one word, not one single deplorable word, about how it wasn't really his fault, he mustn’t blame himself.  
  
When he's the only one who could have stopped it, and he didn't, yes, it is his fault, and any attempts to convince him otherwise only remind him that John doesn't _understand_ , and that particular chasm kills him a little inside every time it is brought to his attention.  
  
Sherlock sees John open his mouth and he can't hear it, he simply _cannot_ hear it, and so he launches himself in the direction of that mouth and covers it with his own. He ignores attempted protestations of surprise, prevents them from becoming words, horrible words, and deepens his kiss, holding on to John's head, transmitting his desperation through tongue and teeth and breath, _don't say anything, please, don't say anything_.  
  
John forces them apart and stares at Sherlock for a long moment. Sherlock stares back. _Please, please, if you say anything I will fly apart, I will box my own ears, I will tear at my hair... please..._  
  
A moment passes in deafening silence, a silence Sherlock _needs_ in order to maintain his very existence. Eventually John reaches up again, kisses him hotly and pulls at clothing and maneuvers them into the bedroom, all without one despicable word.  
  
More moments pass, there is skin on skin, heat and pressure and control and a powerful release he doesn’t deserve but cannot deny, and it all happens without words.  
  
Later, at rest, so still, in silence and darkness, Sherlock feels shallow exhalations reach the back of his neck and realizes that John _does_ understand, maybe not everything, maybe not _why_ , exactly, but he understands more than anyone else ever has.  
  
Without any goddamned words at all.

**Author's Note:**

> 30 Ways in 30 Days begins here: http://thefitches.livejournal.com/3272.html


End file.
